The Circus Infinitus - Genesis Infinitus

by Ethan Somerville

  “A bank-loan.”

  Gordon laughed. Del realised that he thought he was a silly child for thinking that. “No bank would loan an unknown French migrant boy such a prodigious sum! You would have to be from a very wealthy family with lots of collateral behind you, or many loyal backers willing to support your enterprise. You have … just the one who drew this. I can help you, Adam – I can’t arrange for this enormous structure, but I can get your friend a design job at my factory in Sheffield. Judging by his knowledge of machines, he could improve my facility no end. That brings me to my proposal for you.” He took a deep breath. “I must travel there shortly to help break up a strike by my workers.” He grimaced. “My assistant Mr. Henry can’t cope with them. They think they’re not being paid enough. Anyway, I’d like you to come with me. I have a house not far from the factory. We can stay there in relative peace. We can be together.”

  Del had to admit he was tempted – to leave Icarus’s squalid basement and live like a normal … human being would be wonderful. But he doubted Icarus would want to abandon all his plans and work for this fellow. He folded the plan. “If I can get a loan will you build our theatre?”

  Gordon touched him on a shoulder, his thoughts betraying his pitying emotions. He truly thought Del was chasing a dream. “Adam, I promise you if you can convince some hard-faced bank manager to lend you ... let’s see … twenty thousand pounds … I will personally see this Da Vinci theatre of yours constructed, down to the very last detail.”

  It was an empty promise. He did not believe Del could do it. “Can I have that in writing?” Del asked in all seriousness.

  Still unshaken in his belief that Del would fail, he scribbled down what he had said on the back of Icarus’s plan and signed it with a flourish. “Adam, please consider my offer to come north with me. You will not regret it.”

  Del slid the plan back into his pocket. “If I do fail to secure this loan, Icarus and I will join you in Sheffield.”

  Gordon smiled, assured that they would soon be together. He had decided a few weeks earlier that he could keep living a lie. He had been denying his true nature far too long. Then the waiter arrived with their meals. Adam immediately tucked into his food, wolfing it down as though he hadn’t eaten for days. And he thought he could convince a bank-manager to give him a loan? He might have been handsome, but since when did good looks work on bank managers?

  They spoke no more about the strange theatre with the mobile stages. After dinner they headed back to Gordon’s apartment. Del had declined alcohol at the meal, and human food only left him with a ghost of the unsteadiness he used to feel. He only wished it would fill him more. Thus he clearly felt the odd, but familiar prickling at the base of his neck while they were walking down the dark evening street. He turned, at first not seeing anything out of the ordinary. But he could feel someone staring back at him, and focused his gaze. Slowly he made out a stocky, shadowy figure with a large round head, concealed very cleverly in a low doorway.

  “What are you looking at?” asked Gordon.

  Del stared back at the creature. He recognized it as another of the bizarre creatures he had met in the alley of his arrival. As soon as the thing realised he could see it, it took to its heels down the street. “Did you see that fellow?” he asked Gordon. “He was following us!”

  “There’s no-one there! Now look who’s being paranoid?”

  But Del knew he was not mistaken, and continued on his way with Gordon. Why do you creatures keep showing up, then running and hiding like Earthian canines? Who are you? What do you want?

  Del realised that he had not spoken to Icarus about these individuals. It seemed every time he returned to the basement something came up to sweep the creature from his mind. This time he vowed to broach the subject once and for all. Icarus would not be impressed to say the least. Del suspected the three monsters had appeared just after he had. They were the ones Icarus had been expecting. But when Icarus had chased him instead of them, he had allowed them to run free. And now they were up to something. But what?

  Pumpkinhead Jack’s human heart galloped. He couldn’t believe his senses. The alien had spotted him! He could understand the Necronite noticing Jersey Devil – he had no ability to hide. But he, Pumpkinhead, could make himself invisible to all senses. Not even animals could locate him. The answer was obvious – the elf had pinpointed him with his mind, stripping his subterfuge bare.

  But at least Pumpkinhead had something to reveal to the IntelliGent. He returned to the club, where the Gent spent most of his time. The strange little Indian fellow was there now, wide-awake despite the hour, and working on some bizarre contraption up in his secret library. Pumpkinhead skulked up to him and waited to be received.

  “Well?” growled the little Indian in the small round glasses. “I hope you have something tangible for me.”

  “I found the Necronite, but almost as soon as I started following him, he noticed me.”

  “He noticed you? How?”

  “I think he saw me with his mind.”

  “Damn!” The Gent returned to his device, which appeared to be a large metal helmet from which numerous curly cables trailed. It was positioned above the reading-chair with restraints for arms and legs. The wires tangled across the floor to the lens lash-up on the table where the Gent had tried to pin-point the portal a month earlier. He called it his “alternative actuality” machine. “I don’t suppose you learned anything about where he is staying?”

  Pumpkinhead drew himself up, glad that for once he had information. “Well sir, he was with this tall older fella with silver hair an’ a real nice suit. I can describe him for ya-"

  The Gent grabbed him by a shoulder with a bony claw and shoved him into the chair. “I have a better idea. Why don’t you just show me so I don’t have to put up with your limited vocabulary?”

  “Um – sir-" Pumpkinhead really didn’t like the alternative actuality machine. The helmet never fit right and always made his brains feel like they were being baked. But the Gent was already jamming the contraption on his head and twiddling several lug-nuts to tighten it. Then he scurried over the lenses and began adjusting them to fit the frequency of Pumpkinhead’s thoughts.

  “Fix on image of the old man inside and for goodness sake try not to get distracted. I don’t want a picture of the whore you had in Southwark last night!’

  “She wasn’t in Southwark, she was in-" He shut up when the IntelliGent glared at him and focused on the older gentleman. A hazy image slowly clarified on the big lens. The Gent manoeuvred a few more slides and brought the picture into sharper relief. The man had turned side on, allowing Pumpkinhead to glimpse only half of his face. But it was enough. The IntelliGent, who had met nearly all the major players in London and turned most of them away from his exclusive club, recognised Nicholas Gordon. He gave a thin, rare smile. “A famous industrialist! Imagine the scandal if this got out!”

  “Are you gonna blackmail him into revealin’ where the Necronite is hiding?” asked Jack.

  “Blackmail is such a crude method! I might as well bash him in the head, tie him up and torture the information out of him!”

  “Ooh, can we?”

  “Idiot!” the Gent slapped the back of Pumpkinhead’s helmet. The image on the screen flickered and vanished. “Gordon once wanted entry into my club. I turned him away because he just wasn’t clever enough. But once in a while I magnanimously grant membership for a price …information. He will willingly give me what I want, because what does the address of a poor rent-boy mean to him?”

  “I still like the idea of bashin’ him in the head and tyin’ him up! Can I ‘ave this bloody colander off me head now?”

  Not long after the Gent had freed Pumpkinhead and given him a large snifter of port for his information, the Underfiend and Jersey Devil returned from their latest mission. The Gent had asked them to chase up a rumour that had been circulating around the old city, about faceless zombies that had been terrorising local brothels. Had
the creatures only been spotted once he would have dismissed it as a drunken bar-story, but the tale had surfaced several times in different locations, lending it a degree of plausibility.

  The Underfiend simply glared at Pumpkinhead, who was relaxing with his large balloon-glass in front of the fire. He and Jersey were tired, sore and had not managed to bed one single prostitute all night. And now the Gent was standing in front of them, hands on hips, and waiting for information!

  Pumpkinhead lifted his glass. “To your health!”

  The Underfiend sighed. “We spoke to a couple of pimps in a pub, and they were convinced they’d seen the zombies. One fella said he shot one in the street outside his establishment, only when he collected his mates to fetch its body, it was gone.”

  “Did he describe it?”

  “He said it had no face. Or rather, no eyes. Just sockets with yellow flames in ‘em. Scariest damn thing he’d ever seen.”

  The Gent rubbed his small, pointed chin. “He was certain?”

  “Absolutely, sir.”

  “Another fella said he and his gang chased a zombie with no mouth out of his brothel,” Jersey piped up in his squeaky voice. “Only when it first showed up, it was wearing a mask.”

  “A mask?”

  “Some sort of long-nosed thing that fitted over his whole face, with two lenses to look out of. The girls thought he was just some performer having a laugh. Then he took the mask off an’ all hell broke loose. The pimp thinks he could have been with the eyeless chap – he came in with a guy wearing a cat-mask, but who scarpered when the screaming started.”

  The Gent was impressed by the detailed descriptions. But what did this mean? Raising the dead required a very high degree of necromantic knowledge – he doubted any of the occult groups currently active in the city were responsible. “Another mystery to add to the pile,” he mused. “I suppose you two deserve a snifter of port as well.” He served them, then fetched himself a glass of water. While his imps got tiddly he sat down by himself in a corner, pondering the zombies. Then, something occurred to him and he leapt to his feet, crossing to a shelf of very old vellum-covered books. He pulled one out and flipped through it, searching for the section he needed.

  “Could it be?” he wondered out loud. He had already connected the mysterious opening portal to Leonardo’s follower – could Icarus be responsible for the undead as well? The Stigmata volume he held not only spoke of the Omniportallis, but also an “Immortality Machine”. Of course no further description was available, but the book once again claimed a full diagram was contained in the Da Vinci Codex. “No.” The Gent shook his enormous head. He seemed to be connecting too many mysterious to Icarus. Surely he couldn’t possibly be responsible for every strange occurrence in this city!

  A few days later, Nicholas Gordon arrived at his Sheffield residence, located just outside of the industrial town. He had scarcely started talks with his striking workers when he received two letters, express delivered from London. One appeared was quite large and fat, and had come from a very prestigious law-firm known as Ellison and Adler. He normally didn’t deal with such high-flying attorneys, preferring to keep his business costs as low as possible. This can only bode poorly, he thought, wondering who he had upset this time. His guts clenched as he wondered if someone had finally discovered his affairs with young men.

  But it seemed the large sheaf of papers was a contract for Gordon Steamworks to build a theatre for the Da Vinci Company. It revealed that a loan of no less than twenty thousand pounds had been secured from the Bank of England for this purpose, signed, stamped and sealed. A large empty block of land near the factory had also been purchased, with the title deeds also enclosed. The owner; the mysterious Da Vinci Company. And there, at the back, lay the original plans for the building, with Nicholas’s own promise scrawled on the back.

  “Jesus Christ!” Gordon exploded. He had to go and sit down. “How the Hell did you pull this off, Adam?” His head spun from the enormity of what that young man had just accomplished. Not only had he managed to acquire the enormous loan, but he must also have fabricated an entire past for himself, enabling him to present himself as a wealthy businessman. “You must have told some real whoppers!”

  He pushed the large pile of papers aside and opened the second important-looking envelope. Unlike the first it was very small and thin, and only contained one sheet of paper. But its letterhead was also enough to make his heart race. It seemed the owner of the Intelligent Gentlemen’s club had had a change of heart, and was offering him another interview to join, to be conducted in London in two weeks’ time.

  Chapter 10

  The Da Vinci Company Theatre

  Somewhere out there was a bank manager with a massive headache. And a couple of lawyers who weren’t feeling too well, either. But Del had done it. He had pushed his crippled telepathic abilities to their ultimate limit, convincing these people that he really was a wealthy French aristocrat with the business assets to back up his loan request. His handsome appearance and charisma had helped, but not as much as he’d hoped; the three men he’d tried to influence had all been staunch heterosexuals. It seemed bisexuals were even less prevalent than homosexuals.

  The night after Del had organised the requests, he had slept badly, with dark faces haunting his dreams. He fancied he heard a sibilant voice taunting him, telling him that by using his powers so forcefully he had started down the slippery slope of corruption.

  It is only a matter of time, sweet child of mine, whispered a horribly familiar voice in the depths of his mind. Twisting on his bed, he remembered the darkness he had fallen through on his way here – the absolute zero emptiness of the Pit of Dark Flame.

  He had leapt to his feet before he was completely awake, startling Icarus and his zombie companions from their meditative places around the fire. When queried about his night-terrors, he managed to convince them – and himself – that the voice had come from his own guilty conscience.

  “We must use whatever means necessary to get by,” Icarus told him. “Otherwise like you said before, we’ll be stuck in this mouldy old basement forever.”

  Later, Del finally explained to Icarus about the three separate instances when he had encountered the strange, impish creatures. “At first I wasn’t sure, but now I think they might have come through the portal after me, while you were chasing me through the streets.”

  Icarus stared at him in horror. “You only thought to tell me this now?”

  “Each time I encountered them, something else happened directly after that took them from my thoughts!” Del retorted. “You know very well what happened after I returned from that aristocrat’s party!”

  Icarus lowered his odd-eyed gaze. “Very well, but now they’ve had a few months to acclimatise, they’ll have gone underground, found someone to shelter them. They’ll be damn near impossible to find. And God only knows what they’re up to. Obviously, if you’ve noticed them following you twice now, they’re especially interested in you!”

  “What are these demons you’re talking about?” asked Tim Dobbs. Also curious, his brother grunted.

  “Immaterium Imps – trouble-making scum who could be working for the prince Vladrakov,” Icarus growled.

  “Every time I turn to confront them, they flee. They won’t let me speak to them,” Del continued.

  “Of course not. They’re frightened of you. The obviously know that you are more than what you seem. Their secretive behaviour suggests that they’re reporting to someone. Fortunately, not the Stigmata. The Church would never deign to deal with such creatures. So who else, I wonder?” Icarus rubbed his forehead with his human hand. “It seems I’ll have to rework my wards, just in case they come sniffing around here. It’s time I upgraded them anyway.” He began rummaging through the clutter on his work-bench for his lens collection.

  Del was left watching, feeling guilty about not revealing the creatures earlier. He hoped he hadn’t done anything to jeopardize their secrecy.

  O
nly a few days after that incident, the Dobbs brothers finally found a woman who wanted to join them and share their unique brand of immortality. An old prostitute, also suffering from advanced syphilis, took up their offer. Even after they had explained to her that she would be undead, and require a mysterious substance to keep herself energised, she still agreed. So they brought Ethel Wilson, her face pocked with sores, her limbs aching from the disease’s bizarre bone-growth, down into the basement. Icarus could hardly contain his glee. Now he knew the machine worked effectively, he craved more subjects. And, as usual, the squeamish Del vacated the premises. Beyond caring, Ethel stripped and allowed herself to be manacled to the metal platform. Like the Dobbs brothers before her, she was in too much pain to care how it ended.

  Thus Icarus created his fourth successful zombie. Ethel came through alive – or rather un-alive – and soon discovered a relatively normal need for alcohol. Of course the injuries syphilis had caused her didn’t heal, but they no longer mattered. She was now stronger than several men and fantastically agile. She was also quite willing to enjoy their company on a regular basis. They frolicked in front of the fireplace until Icarus had had enough of their incessant giggling, and cleared his storeroom for them. It seemed as zombies, their appetites were endless.

  Invitation in hand, Nicholas Gordon presented himself at the St James address at the time requested, and only had to wait a couple of minutes before the big door creaked inwards, seemingly of its own accord. He couldn’t see anyone behind it, but took this as his cue. Straightening his jacket he ascended the steps and entered the building. The door slammed behind him and he found himself in the broad, carpeted hall he remembered. The walls were lined with paintings of geniuses from centuries past; Gordon recognised Socrates, Archimedes, Galileo, Descartes and Sir Isaac Newton. But there didn’t appear to be anyone to welcome him. However, there was a door open a few yards down the hall – all others were firmly closed. Obviously that was where he was supposed to go. He stepped into the room, and was met by a little man he also recognised; the same unassuming Indian fellow who had interviewed him last time. Obviously the man was some sort of servant; Gordon supposed he wouldn’t meet any of the real bigwigs until after he’d passed his initiation.